Painting Chef – Cheaper Than Therapy

Welcome ladies and… gentleman! I see a gentleman!

(Name that movie and win my undying love)

Ahem… as I was saying… welcome. It’s time for the latest chapter in the never-ending saga of “Susannah and Patrick just want a baby, OMG universe why do you hate us so much?”

So. I tried. I tried so hard to get on board with embryo adoption. I tried and tried to rationalize to myself. To you. To myself again. And each time I failed. I can’t do it. As much as I want to be pregnant, I just can’t. I’m sure it has something to do with my VERY passionate and uncompromising pro-choice position and how that contrasts with the roots of the embryo adoption “thing” but something about it just… it doesn’t sit right with me. But I think there is more to it than that… Maybe I haven’t felt myself pulled towards adoption as a “mission” per say, but I don’t feel right choosing something that feels incredibly selfish and all about me-me-me when there are so many children who already exist in non-frozen form who NEED a home. Maybe they need our home.

At the same time, in my wildly over-thought navel-gazing manner, I’m terrified of adopting a child. Public, private, domestic, international, stork-kidnapping or cabbage patch-raiding. It all overwhelms me. The feeeelings keep me up at night and have even kept me from fully relaxing for my last few pedicures. So damn. Shit must be real.

We go back and forth. We change our minds daily. We plan expensive home renovations requiring loans and demolition and possible temporary relocation while the back of our house is missing only to scrap them when we decide that hey… maybe we should pay off the boat first. All as a distraction.

We try and tell ourselves that maybe it isn’t supposed to be our thing. Maybe we’re just meant to be the most kick ass aunt and uncle that ever aunt-ed and uncle-ed. We write the whole thing off, try and plan a vacation instead. And then we finally make a decision that, for the first time, doesn’t keep us both up at night whispering until 2 am. We are able to sit down and know that there is a plan and that it is finally something that feels like more than just a thought… it feels like… a calling? A mission?

I don’t know. Here is what I DO know.

In 2 weeks, Patrick and I will begin the process to be foster parents. We still hope to eventually adopt if the right situation comes along. But in the meantime, until that situation presents itself, we have a lot of love to give. We have a peaceful and healing home. We have puppies who want, more than anything, warm laps and lots of hugs. We have arms to hug, ears to listen and hearts to love. Whether we are in a child’s life for days, weeks, months, or hopefully, the rest of their lives, we can make a difference.

I don’t want to turn this into a “foster mommy” blog. I imagine that there are rules about that anyway. But as we go through the training, I will probably talk about that more than just about anything else (and let’s be honest… saying anything at all is few and far between in these parts lately). I’m nervous and I’m unsure of what to expect. But for the first time in a long, long time, I’m not scared. I feel like this is the right direction.

For the first time in quite a while, I don’t’ feel like I’m drowning in a fog with no clue which way is up. It’s like someone has grabbed my shoulders, turned me just slightly, and given me a gentle shove in a direction. So I’m grabbing Patrick’s hand and walking that way without looking back.

Shit. Let’s just be honest. I’m pointing in a direction and them jumping on his back because we all know that Patrick is the quiet, constant strength in this equation. Without him, without his love and patience and acceptance of whatever our future is supposed to be, I’d fall on my face every. damn. time.

Hi. So… I’m having a bit of a quandary-slash-crisis of the… heart? Soul? Heart and soul? Are you hearing that one song that everyone knows how to play on the piano or the kicky Huey Lewis and the News song from the 80’s-ish?

It’s this whole adoption thing. It’s SCARY. And the attorney I’ve talked to is not at all helpful. International adoption is very daunting. So many rules… I’m too fat and previously depressed for China. Too American for Russia. Too old for other places. And oh by the way… the fact that I know in advance that we need to rule out countries that are going to require open-ended trips apparently makes me NOT a good planner who considers all the options but instead makes me a workaholic potential mother who will clearly lock my baby in a crate and feed it nothing but diet coke and mallomars with a side of whiskey.

(Are mallomars even still a thing?)

Domestic adoption… Patrick has ordered me to immediately cease and desist walking up to pregnant children in Wal-Mart and asking for their babies. I LIVE IN TENNESSEE! That’s where these kids are congregating. In completely unrelated news? I’m terrific at ducking a right hook but the left one always takes me by surprise. This is an unintentional victory because Wal-Mart always makes me sad.

But what I’m trying to wind my way around to talking about is something I’ve actually just recently learned about. Embryo adoption…

When Patrick and I both started down this path a million years ago back when my boobs were perkier and he still had hair, one of the things we agreed on was that we would have a child that was either both of ours or neither, biologically speaking. I tried and tried to make my eggs the little engines that could but while most women’s eggs are firm and plump and like those gorgeous brown, cage-free eggs that are absolutely perfect… mine are more in line with the plastic Easter egg with mismatched halves that has probably been left outside for a year, stepped on and probably peed on by a few dogs.

Clearly, it seemed like adoption was the only avenue we had left to explore. But the other day, my mother mentioned something to me in passing that I stuck in the back of my brain and took to the internets a little later to learn about.

Embryo adoption is NOT a traditional adoption. When women do IVF, there are almost always more embryos that they need/desire/plan to raise/whatever you want to call it. In the past, these embryos were either donated for research or destroyed but apparently now? They can also be donated for adoption. To people like me with crap eggs.

So we looked into a little… and then a little more… and then it started to seem like something that might be a really great fit for us.

And I started really turning it over in my head. Is it an adoption that is contradicting the entire mission of adoption? There are children that exist that need homes and parents. These embryos, regardless of what your definition of living or existing or whatever may be, are not those children. These embryos are, for intents and purposes, little teeny tiny ice cubes.

But despite that, this is still really appealing to me. And after talking it over with Patrick, I think I’m okay with that. There are people who are led to adoption as a “mission”. Regardless of their own reproductive status, they want to adopt children. We aren’t necessarily those people, we want to be parents. To a baby. I had come to terms with the fact that I wasn’t going to give birth to that baby but now, suddenly here is that possibility again. But without all the drugs and procedures that I’d been subjecting myself to.

I don’t know… we are still learning. But for the moment? This is winning…

It’s kind of crazy how, just when you think you’ve settled on one thing your heart strings up and do a 180 on you and suddenly WHAM you are in completely uncharted waters preparing to open your entire life up to total strangers.

Maybe I should back up?

It’s simple really… Patrick and I have decided to adopt. There it is. We were initially considering international adoption but that truth is that, quite frankly, we can’t be out of the country and away from work for as long as we would have to be in order to complete all the paperwork. I hate even saying that because it totally reads “workaholic” but it’s just the reality of a small, family-owned business. Two-thirds of our daily office staff cannot be on an open-ended trip to Asia or Africa. And I think it’s not something that Patrick or I could not do together.

So… we are learning. We are looking at all the paperwork. We are realizing that maybe we should have life insurance. (Don’t judge.) We are composing letters to birth mothers and making scrapbooks about our life. We are collecting letters of reference from people who know us. We are making appointments with doctors and lawyers and Indian chiefs. Wait… scratch that last one… We are putting out the word that we are looking to adopt a baby. The internet says that’s a good idea. It weirds me out a little, I can’t lie. But here I am. Putting it out there into the world.

There are so many avenues to pursue. Private, Open, Closed, Government, I have no idea. I’m terrified. We are preparing to open up our entire lives for evaluation and I’m just hoping and praying that I didn’t screw this all up 15 years ago before I even knew what I was doing.

Our plan was let’s have our wonderful trip (and we did) and then we will look again at this whole parent thing. We’ve put it on the back burner long enough. I’m 35. He’s 34. We’re never going to feel adult enough but maybe we will figure it out. Everyone else does, right? But as I’ve ignored the elephant in the room, one thing was CRYSTAL clear. The fertility treatments? No. I’m done. No more. NOTHING. I’m not going back there.

And despite what those people who think they’ve got all the answers want to tell you, without lots of intervention, it ain’t happening. I don’t need to relax. Starting this process is NOT what is going to get me pregnant. But no matter how hard I’ve tried to ignore it, I DO still want to be a mother.

I was in line at the grocery store on Monday, having spent the better part of my workday doing research, when I noticed that in front of me was a girl who didn’t look a day over 16 (which means she was 25 as I FAIL as age-guessing) buying a pregnancy test. Behind me? Same. Thing. I went home and asked Patrick if it was too early to start handing out my number to every minor buying a pregnancy test. He said yes, he hasn’t saved up enough bail money yet.

Here’s the question though… where those girls a sign or just confirmation that the universe is kind of a dick sometimes?

Somewhere in the back of my head, deep down in my subcockles, it’s starting to wake up. That little voice… the one that says maybe it’s time to start thinking about it again. Not yet up to a pounding, incessant “BABY BABY BABY” roar but a little tingle.. an inkling. Just something out there that says, yeah… maybe… let’s shyly approach each other and avoid eye contact.

Let’s fourth grade it, if you will…

I’m unwilling to commit. Is that a problem? I’m not 100% sold and I feel like a hypocrite because there was a time that I was. And then when nothing (nothing, nothing, nothing… always with the nothing) happened I figured, okay… this is maybe good? For a reason? Yet I cry all the time so what the hell? How can I have been so certain I wanted something and been willing to dive headfirst into doing whatever it took to achieve that and then just… walk away?

I’m not religious. At all. Which you all know all too well… In fact, that’s a whole new fun issue that has cropped up between me and the in-laws because of a (STUPID) morning buzz wherein I deviated from my M.O. of smile and nod. I should have known better. (shaking that whole mess off… moving on)

But while not religious, I do have a strong belief in a… plan? (Is that the word? I search for words so much more than I used to lately. It almost feels like an old friend betraying me, I can’t explain it… probably because I can’t find the words.) But I think it’s more of a plan in the fuzzy, obtuse sort of way if that makes sense. I’ve not been ready. I thought I was ready, I was certain. But they didn’t happen and maybe that was on purpose? And had things gone differently, we would have managed and done wonderfully, I have no doubt.

And yet doubt is all I have now. I’ve thought I was in the right place before. Many times. So now all I know is doubt. Uncertainty. Fear. Plain and simple. I’m scared shitless. I can’t go through it again. In any fashion. So is the safest and smartest thing to not even try? Fear and doubt. Doubt that it will work. Fear that it will. Neither is good… there used to be hope.

I stopped because I wanted to be ME again. And while that’s gone great, and I’m so much happier and healthier and just… better. Closer to me (but not there yet). I don’t think I ever anticipated losing that need that defined me. But it’s changed somehow, softened? I hesitate to call it ambivalence. Are you even ALLOWED to be ambivalent about children? Fertility treatments? Adoption?

I love my life now. I’m not searching for something to round it out. I don’t feel like anything is missing. So… do I really WANT to change that? Yeah… probably… I think I do. But what if I don’t? What if I’m not sure. What is what I think is happiness is just those twin whores fear and doubt?

Ugh. I have no idea.

Hey. Remember how I used to talk about my girly bits all the time? And how it made us want to stick forks in our eyeballs and then everyone would have a party and strangle me with a scarf knitted from my intestines so I would shut the hell up?

Good times, good times.

Let’s do that some more, shall we?

Have you noticed that I’m not getting any younger? THIRTY. FOUR. Despite all my efforts, 34 has not yet been labeled the new 16 (although the brand new zit in my fucking EYEBROW begs to differ) and I am, apparently, climbing on up there in years and thinking that that whole get knocked up thing may have been on the backburner for long enough.

It’s been over a year since I went cold turkey on the on the fertility drugs and it was one of the best things I ever did. I finally decided to focus and me and my health, both physical AND emotional. I think that the official medical term for the state I had reached was cracked out.

Looking back on it now, as a former addict, I see so many similarities. I was burning through our savings (and running up our credit cards) with absolutely no thought of the long term damage I was doing to our financial well-being. Nor did I give a second thought to the toll that my actions were taking on my own body. I paid no attention to the effects of my obsession on my personality, my marriage or my relationships. I was, quite honestly, addicted to the pursuit of pregnancy.

I’m starting to think that I’m ready again though. Not physically, not yet. But emotionally, I can handle this. I want it again. I’m ready. As I mentioned, Patrick and I are going to take a wonderful vacation in June of next year. We’ve decided on going to Mexico and spending a full week at this gorgeous little place. Go ahead. Check it out. Drool a little… I’ll wait. Rumor is that there is a guy with a fish taco cart just roaming around the pool. I plan to meet that guy and make friends.

But I think that when we get back, it will be time for us to try again. And yes. I’m waiting until we get back from an all-inclusive, tequila-laden vacation. I’m selfish like that. I’m taking birth control pills until we leave. This vacation is planned and purchased and we are going and I’m having a big old time and I’m not going to feel guilty about it. The end.

We’ve been married almost 10 years. Nothing about getting me pregnant is going to be easy to begin with but it’s certainly not going to get easier. (Aside from the complication of me being a big old fattie being taken out… which… YAY ME!). I still want to be a mother though. Desperately. I’ve ignored it long enough, tried to bury it by calling it a “shift in priorities” or “attempt to reclaim my own life” or whatever else other warm and fuzzy therapist speak I could come up with. I’ll be a kick ass mom. And Patrick? Man. This non-existent kid is going to be so damn lucky. I have always unapologetically had a very clear preference for a girl and pink and things of the princess-y genre. Still do, can’t lie. But the thought of Patrick with a little mini-him running around and building forts and planning a tree house and playing with a puppy and being made of slugs and snails and puppy dog tails? That kind of gets me in a place that I didn’t even know existed inside of me.

Yeah. That whole kid thing. That’s back.